


Fog

by verrune



Series: Ignition [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar is a former mercenary guys, Mild Language, Undead, or maybe more than mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verrune/pseuds/verrune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to the Fallow Mire is already becoming pretty miserable—and then it gets even foggier. The Iron Bull is taken back to Seheron pretty quickly after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fog

She elbows the final fetid corpse in the face, recoiling in disgust as it falls to the ground. The small party is alone in the fog once more.

Asaala shakes out her right arm in a futile attempt to rid herself of the crawling itch she swears the corpse left behind; the action makes her wince. Though mostly recovered, the panful effects of falling down a tunnel onto her arm in Haven still linger. She is panting, feeling claustrophobic in the dense fog surrounding them, and desperately attempts to lighten the mood. “Looks like the dreaded fog warriors weren’t a match for us."

She hears a breath hitch behind her, and for a moment she is terrified, because it was Bull. He is the one whose clear head she can count on in a crisis, and if he is startled or nervous enough not to hide it she knows to be ready for the worst. But when she turns, an arrow nocked, there is only the large Qunari. No wraiths to shatter, no Avaar to wrangle. Just the Iron Bull, breathing hard even though the fight is long over, looking from side to side as if something might jump out of the fog at any time.

Something about that jogs her memory. _Fog. Fog warriors. Andraste’s fucking tits._

“Bad choice of words?” Asaala offers quietly, lowering her bow.

He glances her way but doesn’t respond. The massive man rolls his shoulders in a way that suggests nonchalance, but the gesture is discredited by the fact that he still has his axe in hand, ready to swing.

“Hey, Bull,” she says a little louder, sharper, hoping to ground him in the present. “They're just undead," she comforts, even as the word makes her own skin crawl. "This isn’t Seheron."

Finally Bull meets and holds her gaze. Neither of them move, staring each other down until his breathing slows to an acceptable level and he lowers his arms. “No, it isn’t."

—

Later, once they've managed to get enough Inquisition soldiers across the mire to set up a camp, she comes up behind him sitting by the fire, rubbing his ankle. She wonders if that lingering scar tissue is from Seheron, like the darkness in his eyes.

“Haven’t been in fog that thick for a long time,” Bull says. His voice is quiet but carries in the night, and she twitches at how quickly he’s noticed her presence. He doesn’t say anything more, and while not an explicit invitation it is not a dismissal either.

Asaala hesitantly sits next to him. “I grew up hearing horror stories about Seheron from my parents and other Tal-Vashoth. What was it like for you?” She doesn’t bother trying to have tact. If he doesn’t want to answer, he’ll say so. It’s one of the things she appreciates about him.

He does answer, though. “That place is a demon pit. Between the ‘Vints, the Tal-Vashoth, the Fog Warriors and my people, you couldn’t go five minutes without some sort of conflict. The Fog Warriors were nasty fuckers, rebels who hounded us. They had this fog—I don’t think it was magic, more like alchemy—and it was so thick you couldn’t see a foot in front of your face. I’d be on patrol in the square, the fog would roll in, and suddenly half my squad would be dead. Nothing I could do."

“I hate to say it, but that’s pretty impressive,” she comments quietly, thinking of what she could do with a well-placed smokescreen.

He grunts his agreement. “They were fast, efficient and didn’t hurt civilians. I’d have liked them if they didn’t keep killing my guys. As it is, I spent too much time fighting them for my blood not to get pumping in fog."

“We'll probably be out in the fog all day again tomorrow. You don’t have to come,” Asaala offers, though she anticipates his answer.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. What would you do without me to chop those things' heads off?"

Asaala chuckles darkly, resolving to keep an eye on the man. And not to venture into the fog before the sun is up ever again. “I’m sure we’d manage, but it’s always handy to have you along."


End file.
